Cooking Misc.: March 2004 Archives

My parents were in town last weekend, and we went to the Natural History Museum to check out the new ocean life room. In the gift shop they had some chocolate left over from their big chocolate exhibit, so I bought some Vosges Haut-Chocolat: Red Fire, with ancho and chipotle chiles and cinnamon. I was kind of disappointed, though; it tasted like a red hot to me.

It also kind of reminded me of my uncle Larry's cinnamon schnapps. He probably uses red hots to make it. It's fabulous, if I remember correctly: the heat from the cinnamon flavor and the bite of the alcohol. I added a little chipotle powder to my last mug of hot chocolate, and I liked that better than the Vosges chocolate, too. The temperature heat and the flavor heat combine for an intense experience.

Anyway, there were two other Vosges flavors I want to try: curry and coconut with milk chocolate (Naga), and ginger, wasabi and black sesame seeds with dark chocolate (Black Pearl).

was a cream puff from Beard Papa's. But with my parents and an impatient Todd in tow, it was impossible to justify standing in a line that stretched all the way to the end of the block. (Had I been alone, and not in a big hurry, I would have waited, because I wanted to see if it was worth it.)

So I made some of my own when I got home. I remember making cream puffs for a progressive dinner in college, then filling them with pudding or ice cream. You start by bringing 1 cup water, 1/2 cup butter and a pinch of salt to a boil. Add 1 cup flour all at once, then stir until it forms a ball. Let sit 10 minutes, then add 4 eggs, one at a time, stirring each egg into the dough completely before adding the next. Place heaping teaspoons on a greased or silpat-lined baking sheet 3 inches apart and bake at 400 degrees for 30 minutes. Easy.

It was an OK dessert for my diabetic father, too, because I filled his with sugar-free pudding (the rest of us had regular pudding). For something fancier, I'd make a pastry cream (which is what I bet Beard Papa does).

This seems to be a theme for me lately: produce that presents itself as a puzzle, a difficult safe that one must figure out how to crack. The second artichoke I had, the one I steamed one day then ate cold from the refrigerator the next, made me relent and decide that, dipped in a good vinaigrette, it was worth it. The bowl of plain yogurt and diced fresh pineapple I just had has made me change my mind about what I had believed was a waste of time.

First, the pineapple Todd picked out was pretty green, but I found online that as long as it has some yellow or red at the bottom (which ours did) you can ripen it on your counter, upside down (I think it was NBC's Produce Pete who gave me that tip). It's almost as though the ripeness gradually runs down the pineapple, and over the course of a few days the pineapple turned yellow, from the bottom (which was on top) to the top (I had perched the pineapple on of that tuft of stiff leaves that come out the top).

Once it's ripe, you slice off the top and bottom, then the tough exterior. Then there are all those eyes; I had seen people on TV find the rows of eyes and cut out a row at a time, which I did, then picked out the rest. It's not a quick job, though, whatever TV chefs may say. Mine also had all these little seeds embedded in it, and so I took out as many of those as I could. Then I quartered it lengthwise, cut out the fibrous core and chopped it into chunks.

I diced a bit up and mixed it with plain yogurt: sweet with the tang from the yogurt, smooth creaminess with the juicy, slighty fibrous pieces.

This seems to be a theme for me lately: produce that presents itself as a puzzle, a difficult safe that one must figure out how to crack. The second artichoke I had, the one I steamed one day then ate cold from the refrigerator the next, made me relent and decide that, dipped in a good vinaigrette, it was worth it. The bowl of plain yogurt and diced fresh pineapple I just had has made me change my mind about what I had believed was a waste of time.

First, the pineapple Todd picked out was pretty green, but I found online that as long as it has some yellow or red at the bottom (which ours did) you can ripen it on your counter, upside down (I think it was NBC's Produce Pete who gave me that tip). It's almost as though the ripeness gradually runs down the pineapple, and over the course of a few days the pineapple turned yellow, from the bottom (which was on top) to the top (I had perched the pineapple on of that tuft of stiff leaves that come out the top).

Once it's ripe, you slice off the top and bottom, then the tough exterior. Then there are all those eyes; I had seen people on TV find the rows of eyes and cut out a row at a time, which I did, then picked out the rest. It's not a quick job, though, whatever TV chefs may say. Mine also had all these little seeds embedded in it, and so I took out as many of those as I could. Then I quartered it lengthwise, cut out the fibrous core and chopped it into chunks.

I diced a bit up and mixed it with plain yogurt: sweet with the tang from the yogurt, smooth creaminess with the juicy, slighty fibrous pieces.

My parents are coming for a visit this weekend, and I've invited some friends over for dessert one night to meet them. The problem I'm facing is that my dad is diabetic, and I want to make something he can enjoy with the rest of us. I've read some positive information on Splenda, the sweetener made from a modified sugar molecule that can be substituted at a 1:1 ratio for sugar in recipes where the sugar isn't the basis of texture or browning.

But I've also read a few negative things about Splenda, a few side effects and complaints that there haven't been enough studies. But on one of these sites, the person claims suclarose (Splenda) is about 600 times as sweet as sugar (which is not what the Splenda web site says). There are other seeming discrepancies between the negative Splenda sites and the official Splenda site.

Am I being too careful? I wouldn't consider using something like Splenda if it weren't for my father's diabetes (I'm a firm believer in real butter, full-fat cream, real maple syrup, in moderation). If it were summer I'd serve fresh berries topped with whipped cream or balsamic vinegar. Are there any options like that for very early spring?

I'm considering making a rustic apple tart by tossing the apples with a little Splenda (that's probably what I'll do).

In honor of St. Patrick's Day, I made Nigella Lawson's hash recipe from the NYT yesterday, substituting diced leftover lamb mixed in for the fried egg on top. Figured it was at least as Irish as I am (which is not very much): lots of potatoes, and isn't lamb kind of Irish, too?

Anyway, it was pretty good. I sauteed half a sliced onion in some oil, then added three red potatoes cut into 1/2-inch pieces, salt and a dash of chipotle (she called for cayenne). Cooked that over medium-low heat, stirring frequently, for about 20 minutes, then added the lamb and cooked it for another 10 minutes. The potatoes kind of stick to the pan, making all these little browned bits as you stir them. Good food for a late dinner on a snowy night (I went to bed about an hour after).

We had lots of leftovers after a weekend of company, so we've been eating sandwiches for practically every meal. I don't object, though, because a sandwich can be catered to the individual diner, and that means I get to have whatever weird ingredients on it I want.

Monday night we had smoked turkey sandwiches on 7-grain sandwich bread, and I always add a lot of chutney because I think it goes so well with the smokiness.

Yesterday for lunch I spread salt-cod puree (brandade) on a baguette that I had sliced lengthwise and toasted, then topped it with roasted peppers.

Last night we toasted onion rolls, then topped them with heated, sliced roast beef in the sauce and Swiss cheese, then put them back under the broiler to melt the cheese. I ate mine open-face with more sauce; Todd put the top on and ate it as a sandwich.

I think we're both sandwiched out now, though. Maybe pasta, a quesadilla or a fritatta to keep working on those leftovers.

We would've thrown the poor thing out if we didn't have one of those digital thermometers to tell us that the inside was perfectly cooked, medium rare. The outside was charred in places and red in others, like it was raw (I still don't know what that was, but it wasn't raw). I instructed Todd to slice it up and put it on the serving platter, so our guests wouldn't see the horrible looking chunk of meat - and then what does he do but take it out to the table and slice it up in front of everyone! But the slices looked so nice and pink inside that everyone forgave the roast its disgusting exterior.

The sauce was awesome, too. I was skeptical about the burned fond at the bottom of the roasting pan making anything but a charcoal-tasting sauce, but when I smelled the pan it actually smelled rich and meaty, so I went ahead, with great results. Added butter, then 1/4 a finely diced onion, sauteed it until the onion started to brown, then added 1 cup of the red wine we were drinking, let that cook a bit, then added 1 cup chicken broth. Reduced that a bit, then whisked in 1/2-tablespoon-size chunks of butter (6 of them), one at a time, until it was a smooth sauce.

Chocolate cream pie with a meringue topping is a two person job (especially if you don't have a standing mixer, although women for years made it without one). One of the key elements of putting the whole thing together is to spread the freshly whipped meringue over a piping-hot filling, so the meringue sort of cooks on contact and doesn't break down and weep. So I have my arms stretched across our small kitchen, stirring the bubbling chocolate custard with one hand while I hold the running mixer in the meringue with the other. The other key is to prevent shrinking by spreading the meringue to cover all the edges of the pie.

I did have a problem, though. As the pie sat, sweet little amber-colored beads formed on top of the meringue. It wasn't exactly weeping in the traditional sense, where there's a watery layer between the meringue and the filling. I was thinking maybe it was because the meringue was overcooked, because the recipe I used cooked it at 425 degrees for 20 to 25 minutes. But the texture of the meringue was just what I like, foamy but solid, so I'm not sure that's it. Any ideas?

Last week I had a nice little mezze-type dinner for myself: roasted feta with pita wedges and a cold, steamed artichoke with lemon vinaigrette. The feta was really cute and easy. I put a 2-oz, square slice of feta in a ramekin, drizzled over some olive oil, sprinkled with roasted red peppers, kalamata olives and oregano, and broiled until the edges of the cheese started to brown. I toasted the pita under the broiler for the last couple of minutes the feta was broiling. This was a recipe from I think the March edition of Gourmet, which was the New York edition.

I had steamed the artichoke and made the vinaigrette the night before, so it was a quick dinner, too.

My coworker brought risotto with shrimp, tarragon and lemon for lunch the other day, and she mentioned what a relaxing experience making risotto could be, standing over the pot, stirring with one hand, a glass of wine in the other. I applied the same principle to polenta last night, and topped it with a mixture of roasted mushrooms seasoned with thyme and drizzled with balsamic vinegar.

I'm afraid I found it difficult to just stand and stir - and that bothers me. I want to be the kind of person who can just stand and be, and not get bored. I had to turn on some music, find other things to do in the kitchen, etc. I think I need to practice my relaxation techniques. More polenta, risotto for me. Jam. Other long-cooking things that need regular stirring. I like the idea of foods that will force me to slow down.

My coworker brought risotto with shrimp, tarragon and lemon for lunch the other day, and she mentioned what a relaxing experience making risotto could be, standing over the pot, stirring with one hand, a glass of wine in the other. I applied the same principle to polenta last night, and topped it with a mixture of roasted mushrooms seasoned with thyme and drizzled with balsamic vinegar.

I'm afraid I found it difficult to just stand and stir - and that bothers me. I want to be the kind of person who can just stand and be, and not get bored. I had to turn on some music, find other things to do in the kitchen, etc. I think I need to practice my relaxation techniques. More polenta, risotto for me. Jam. Other long-cooking things that need regular stirring. I like the idea of foods that will force me to slow down.

It looks like that's the way I'm going. I'm a once-a-week shopper generally, at one or more of the groceries in my neighborhood, but I've been to the new Whole Foods five times since it opened, to supplement my regular grocery shopping with things I can't find in my neighborhood or want to buy mid-week for freshness reasons. Yesterday at lunchtime I bought scallops (because the fish store in my neighborhood was closed Sunday when we were doing our shopping), a variety of mushrooms for tonight and a loaf of bread that was crusty and yeasty, with a even, firm middle that'll be good for sandwiches.

The prepared foods area is a zoo at lunchtime, but the grocery area is easy to shop at that time of day and the line, though sometimes very long, moves really fast. And everyone who works there has been so friendly; how long can that possibly last?

This picture is midway through the making of an upside-down red wine–pear tart (like a pear tarte tatin), after the pears had cooked but before the pastry was added. Yesterday I had about a cup of merlot left in the bottle and wanted to try cooking something with it, so I made this tart from A New Way to Cook. The recipe called for 2 1/2 cups dry red wine, so I halved the recipe, making a small, four-serving tart. The wine cooking liquid is flavored with vanilla, which (however improbable it may seem) works. The two flavors—the deep, mellowness of the wine and the fragrant sweetness of the vanilla—amplified each other. The flavor that gets lost, though, is the pear.

Mix 1 cup wine, 2 tablespoons sugar and half a vanilla bean, halved lengthwise and scraped in a nonstick skillet (mine was 8 inches across the bottom). Simmer that for five minutes, then take it off the heat to cool a bit and add two sliced pears in whatever pattern you want the tart to have, cutting up a few slices to fill in the empty spaces. Simmer that in the wine, turning once, for about 45 minutes, until the wine is syrupy and the pears are tender. At this point you can leave the pears sit for a while or cover the pears with a thin round of pastry dough (I used one of those refrigerated pie crusts cut down to fit), then bake at 425 degrees until the crust is browned, about 15 minutes.

Right when you're ready to serve, unmold onto a cakeplate. If the tart has cooled, you can heat the pan briefly over medium heat to loosen it before you try to unmold it.